


Snap, Break, Bend

by elise_509



Series: Move On, Let Go [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: But still mild spoilers, M/M, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Not Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Over Five Years Later and Peter is 22
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 22:09:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19732759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elise_509/pseuds/elise_509
Summary: The Snap goes differently and Peter and Steve become close friends in its aftermath.Until it's five years later and Peter wants something more.





	Snap, Break, Bend

**Author's Note:**

> Edited on 8/10/19 to adjust Peter from 23 to 22, because I thought MCU Peter was born in 2000, not 2001, because apparently I can't do math. :|

Peter glances surreptitiously at Steve for the third time in as many minutes. The other man’s gaze is locked on the television screen, watching the movie they’d switched on over an hour ago now. Steve may be paying attention, but Peter wouldn’t be able to say the first thing about the film if anyone asked. 

There’s a large bowl of popcorn in between them on the couch, the kind of barrier that Steve probably didn’t create deliberately but is a barrier nonetheless. Peter on one end of the couch, a full cushion for the popcorn, and then Steve. 

Not that Peter would know how to make a move even if he was close. What would he do, pretend to yawn and put his arm around him? His every romantic interaction thus far in his life has been awkward. He’d dated MJ for two years and it never really stopped being awkward. _He_ is awkward. 

He’s not about to get suave now, with freaking Captain America in his sights. 

_Not really,_ Peter reminds himself. Not just Captain America. It's Steve. 

He and Steve have been friends for over five years now, ever since the Snap had blipped half of the population out of existence. It is a different world than before.

It’s a world without Mr. Stark. Cap may have stepped in to a mentorship role out of a sense of duty, but over time that had shifted. For all that Steve is older—sixteen years, but much older when you take the sixty-seven year nap into account—it wasn’t at all the same father/son dynamic that Mr. Stark had cultivated. He had Happy Hogan and Professor Hulk and hell, even Scott Lang for that; he was just swimming in father figures now. Theirs is a friendship, albeit a slightly lopsided one where Steve knows more about his daily trials and tribulations than Peter knows of his. 

Somewhere in the middle of it all, as Steve talked him through his break-ups and make-ups, his college stress-outs and job search panics, the squabbles with Aunt May, the big battles and the small fights, something changed, in a big, big way.

At least for him.

About a year ago he’d realized that his heart picked up whenever Steve’s call came through on his phone, that picture he’d snapped of Steve when they went to their first Mets game flashing on the screen. He loved talking art with him, his mild interest in photography blowing up to a full-blown hobby under Steve’s guidance. He realized that he liked it a little too much when Steve hugged him—not just for the familiar comfort, but the feel of skin-on-skin, the strength of those arms around his body, the smell of Steve’s soap and shampoo. When Steve talked, his deep, warm voice _did things_ to Peter’s insides that he’d never felt before. He’d zoned out numerous times now watching Steve’s mouth curl around words. 

Steve hasn’t noticed, he doesn't think, but Peter knows Natasha has. He’d worried for a while that Steve and Natasha were secretly a thing, until he mentioned it to Natasha one day in a calculatedly off-handed way. She’d narrowed her eyes at him, gave him a firm, wry _no_ , and then arched her eyebrow. 

So yeah, she knows. 

It’s only a matter of time until she says something to Steve. Co-running what is left of the Avengers has brought them closer than ever, especially with Barton off the grid and Sam and Bucky gone. 

He may have lost Mr. Stark, but he still has Aunt May, and MJ, and Ned, and so many others. Steve lost nearly everyone, all over again. Yet he keeps going. Straight-backed and forthright he moves forward. 

Peter shakes himself from his thoughts and sneaks another glance Steve’s way. He is beautiful, bathed in the flickering blue light of the television screen. He’s still wearing his hair a little longer, and slightly darker than his usual blond. The perfectly square jawline and sharp cheekbones are obscured by his beard, but Peter likes it. 

He likes it a lot. 

He likes imagining what it would be like to kiss those pale pink lips and feel that beard scratching against his chin. 

“Do I have something on my face?” Steve asks. He doesn’t take his eyes off the TV but the right hand corner of his mouth ticks upward. 

“What?” Peter startles. “No. What? Sorry.” 

Steve picks up the remote and pauses the movie. 

“If you’re bored, we don’t have to finish this.” He says good-naturedly, finally tilting his head to look at him, eyebrow arched. “I can watch it some other time.”

“Oh, oh no. No. Movie’s fine. Totally into it.”

Steve’s eyebrow inches higher. 

“Can you even tell me the main character’s name?”

“Uh…” He peeks at the Blu-ray case sitting on the coffee table, reading the title. “Mr. Smith? ” 

Steve sighs and clicks power off on the remote, room going dim without the light of the television. There’s the light from the kitchen but the drawn curtains block the city lights outside Steve’s Brooklyn apartment. He and Steve are the only Avengers who live in New York now, and Peter has never really been as happy to be from Queens. 

Steve leans forward, dropping the control to the coffee table. Peter swallows hard as those muscles tighten and shift under his shirt with the simple movement. The man can’t even sit up without Peter salivating. 

“Is something wrong, Peter?” Steve always uses his full name, and even though Peter likes the sound of it tripping off Steve’s lips, he wishes he’d shorten it to Pete, the way Natasha is Nat or the way even Bucky’s nickname was shortened further to Buck. 

“Nothing’s wrong,” Peter’s voice betrays him, cracking a little. Steve gives him a look that plainly says he’s not buying what Peter’s selling. “Maybe I’m tired?” 

“Is that a question?” Steve chuckles a little and turns in his seat to face Peter, one leg folding up on the couch. He rests his elbow on his knee, shifting into confidante mode. “Seriously. Everything okay?”

“It’s fine. Really. _Really._ ” Peter assures him, not wanting him to press this even a second further. “Maybe…maybe I could use a drink though. You want a drink? I’ll go get something.” He scrambles up off the couch, nearly knocking the bowl of popcorn to the floor. 

Suddenly Steve’s hand catches his wrist, stopping him as he tries to clamber by. The action seems to surprise even Steve himself, but he doesn’t let go. 

“Uh, a beer would be good. Please.” Steve says after a moment, releasing his grasp. It seemed like maybe he was going to say something else. But he didn’t, so Peter just nods and darts into the kitchen. 

Opening the fridge, Peter leans his head against the edge of the door, the stainless steel refreshingly cool against his heated face. He closes his eyes and tries to calm his nerves. He just wants to grab Steve and…he doesn’t know what. Do everything he’s not supposed to. Especially not to a national icon sixteen years his elder who is only his friend because they’re both superpowered and there’s hardly anyone else left. 

Fuck. Peter opens his eyes and grabs two beers from the bottom shelf, slamming the door. 

It’s not true, or fair; he and Steve may have been thrown together by circumstance, but it’s been more than seven years since Spider-Man first stole Captain America’s shield at that airport in Berlin, and over five since The Snap. Steve very well could have kept an eye on him without being _this_ involved in his life, but he didn’t keep his distance. 

He’s close. Very, very close. 

Peter takes a deep, purposeful breath and spins on his heel to return to the living room. Steve hasn’t turned on the lamp yet, maybe planning to re-start the movie. The light spilling in from the kitchen bathes the right side of his face in warmth as he turns to look at Peter walking back in. 

Peter hands him his beer and reclaims his seat on the couch, that careful cushion apart. He leans back and pops off the cap of the beer with his thumb. A very minor perk of super strength is never needing a bottle opener. 

Steve does the same and brings the bottle to his lips, taking a nice, long drink. Peter’s hand tightens around his own beer, condensation forming under his sweaty palm, as he watches Steve’s mouth close around the opening of the bottle, his Adam’s apple bobbing and throat constricting with every swallow. 

“Oh Jesus,” Peter mutters under his breath and grabs the nearest throw pillow, slamming it down over his lap. 

Steve’s lips are wet and his tongue darts out to lick them, the perfectly innocent becoming deeply obscene. Peter looks away and downs two-thirds of his beer in one go, panicked and desperate for something to take the edge off. 

When he stops chugging, he glances over to find Steve studying him again but very loudly not saying anything. 

“I was thirsty.” Peter explains sheepishly, blushing under Steve’s gaze. 

“Uh-huh.” Steve nods and takes another sip of his own. 

“Yeah.” 

“Well as great as sitting here drinking in the dark is, was there something else you wanted to do tonight?” Steve strokes his thumb through the condensation on the side of his bottle, an absent-minded gesture as he tries to offer Peter an out. It’s the height of irony, Steve sitting there trying to nobly free Peter from what he supposes is a boring evening of obligation when Peter is sitting there absolutely fixated on the mere sight of Steve _holding a beer_. “Where are all your friends? You don’t have to sit here watching old movies with me if MJ and Ned or Harry—”

“They’re busy,” Peter lies. Well, he’s not sure if it’s a lie; he hasn’t talked to MJ or Ned in about a week, and since graduating MIT over a year ago, he and Harry haven’t been as much in touch. Peter’s got his job at Stark Industries, and Harry’s at OsCorp. Everyone has jobs and lives and Peter’s got all of that _plus_ the Avengers. “You know, they’re adulting.”

“I still don’t get how acting appropriately responsible warranted a whole new verb.” Steve takes another sip and Peter wants to kill him. Getting him a drink was the worst idea he’s ever had and he’s had _so many_ bad ideas. 

“Yeah, well, besides. I like being here with you.” Peter smiles at Steve in the half-darkness, his tone soft and too telling. He coughs and then cracks a forced smile. “Even if your taste in movies does suck.” 

“Come on, now. I sat through all of your _Stranger Things_ and _Game of Thrones_ and all of that, is a little Frank Capra really so bad?” Steve shifts, reaching back with his left arm to turn on the table lamp. 

That’s when Peter does something dumb.

“No, don’t.” He’s across the couch without thinking, popcorn bowl tipped to the floor with a loud clatter, kernels scattering over the floor. 

“Peter, what the—” He grabs Steve’s arm and pulls him back from the light. He’s half in Steve’s lap, their faces inches apart. 

“Peter—”

Steve’s next words are muffled by Peter’s mouth, by Peter fully straddling his lap, by one hand on his chest and one hand in his beard, and _holy shit_ they are kissing. 

Steve gasps and gives into it for one precious, glorious moment. 

It may just be shock, but he lets Peter in easily. Their tongues slide together, and Steve tastes like beer and mint and freedom—can someone taste like freedom? Steve somehow does. Peter angles his head to get deeper, get more. He closes his eyes tightly and urges closer, his hands sliding to Steve’s neck. This is everything he thought it would be. 

Then Peter feels Steve’s whole body tense underneath him. His hands go up to Peter’s chest and he pushes back gently. 

“Peter…” The lamp goes on, then. 

Peter doesn’t want to open his eyes and see Steve’s face—the confusion, disappointment, the disgust. 

“Pete…I…look at me.” Steve’s voice is soft and Peter forces his eyes open. Steve doesn’t look angry, but his blue eyes are full of regret. “Pete, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give you the impression…if I... This isn’t…You don’t have to…” 

Steve, usually so eloquent and deliberate no matter what the circumstance, gives up on speaking all together. His hands go to Peter’s hips to ease him off his lap. But then he seems to think better of touching him like that and pulls back, trying instead to shift from underneath Peter’s weight and unseat him. 

Literally all this accomplishes is making Peter harder. He knows Steve can see it and feel it, it’s as plain as day, and his face heats in embarrassment. 

“No, Cap, this is all on me. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should…go. I should go home.” Peter climbs off of Steve’s lap ungracefully, his legs hitting the back of the coffee table as he stands. 

Steve sitting before him on the couch, head at eye level with his tented jeans, is even worse. 

Steve stands too, and nope, no, that’s not much better because they’re back in each other’s space, way too close. Peter’s hands automatically go to Steve’s broad chest to keep them from colliding, a hand on each firm pec. His Henley is so soft and his muscles are so hard and those top three buttons are undone and _god dammit._

Peter quickly and lightly steps back up and over the coffee table, his skills finally kicking in to allow him to move with a modicum of grace and ease. 

“I never meant to do anything to make you think this is what I wanted from you.” 

“Oh, no, of course not, no,” Peter replies hurriedly. “I mean, why would you—” He gestures up and down Steve. “I mean _you_ , come on—want _this_ ,” He points to himself with both hands. “That’s ludicrous. We know that’s ludicrous, the both of us. I don’t think that. That was just…” Pete glances at the ceiling and bounces on his feet as he tries to think of some feasible excuse for him _losing his mind_ a moment ago. “Okay, well, I don’t know what that was. Temporary insanity, I was possessed, hey, maybe I’m a Skrull. No, I’m not a Skrull. Never mind. Doesn’t matter. Won’t happen again.” 

“Pete—”

“No, it’s okay.” His voice is so high right now. Why is his voice so high? “I really should go though, I have work tomorrow and all so—”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

“But you never know when we’ll be needed, right, like us, the Avengers. I should be ready. Well-rested. Just in case.”

“I think it’s important we should sit down and talk about this.” Steve has regained some semblance of his bearings and he gestures toward the couch, inviting Peter to sit. Peter shakes his head adamantly. 

“Talk about what? I did a dumb thing and kissed you and you don’t want me and end of story.” Peter backs toward the door, eager for a swift exit so he can go home and die of embarrassment. 

“Pete, it’s not that I don’t _want_ you, it’s just—” Steve stops, swallowing his next words. Peter’s eyes snap to his and Steve quickly looks away, hands going to his hips. “That’s not true, that’s not what I meant to say.”

It’s a slim window of opportunity. It’s a narrow chance. 

“Wait wait wait, that’s not true or that’s not what you meant to say?” He walks back toward Steve.

“What?”

“What you said—it's not true or it’s not what you meant? Those are two different things.” Peter weighs each option, one on each hand. 

“That’s just semantics, Peter. You sound like Tony.” Steve tries to sound dismissive but his voice shakes. He makes to walk away and Peter’s heart jumps into his throat. 

“Cap.” Without thinking, he’s on Steve again, grabbing him by the shoulders and spinning him around, fisting his hands in his shirt and pulling him close. “Steve.” Peter’s used to feeling like the kid, feeling like he’s the one who doesn’t know what he’s doing, but looking at Steve’s face, he feels like he’s the one on solid ground and for once Steve’s the one losing his footing. 

“Just...stay right there and let me do this.” He thinks Steve is going to stop him, but to his amazement, Steve remains still, eyes flicking down to Peter’s mouth. That’s all the permission he needs. 

He kisses Steve tentatively at first, afraid to set him running. But Steve doesn’t run. He doesn’t push him away this time. So Peter lets it all go, putting all that he feels into each meeting of their lips. 

Steve’s arms go around him, hands moving over his back. Not quite knowing where he gets the courage, Peter drops his own arms to Steve’s waist and palms Steve’s ass, fingers sliding into the back pockets of his jeans. When Steve doesn’t stop him, Peter groans and pushes closer, rubbing his whole body against all of those delicious muscles. He pushes until Steve pushes back, spinning them both and pinning him to the wall of the entryway between the living room and kitchen. 

“You’re 22, Peter.” Steve murmurs between kisses.

“You’re 38, Steve.” Peter retorts. 

“Pete.”

“What?” He shrugs. “I thought we were stating obvious facts like they somehow mattered.” He pushes off the floor and wraps his legs around Steve’s waist, knowing Steve will support him. He catalogs Steve’s broad hands on his thighs as one of his new favorite things. “Call me Pete again.”

“Pete?” Steve repeats questioningly. Peter smiles breathlessly and dips his head to kiss Steve’s throat, fingers grasping strands of his dark blond hair. 

“I think I could come just from that,” Pete gasps in Steve’s ear, and with that all bets are off.

“Fuck, Pete.” Steve holds him to the wall with just his weight so he can use his hands to grab Peter’s face, pull him back for a kiss. It’s scorching, the full brunt of Steve’s desire suddenly let loose, and it’s the kind of danger that sets every single one of Peter’s senses on fire, his whole body ripped taut and ready to go. 

“Would you?”

He and Steve are rutting now, hardness against hardness through way too many layers of clothes, and the _want_ is spilling out, totally out of control. 

“Would I, what?” Steve asks, and fails to bite back a groan as Peter snakes a hand between them, fumbling with Steve’s belt. 

“Fuck me.” 

Steve’s pace stutters and he torques his neck away from Peter’s kisses, eyes finding his. Steve’s gaze is hazy, pupils blown, and Peter knows that he has to look even more far gone himself. 

“Jesus, Pete.” Steve breathes and in the silence that follows there’s the jangle of his belt buckle coming loose and the metallic slide of his zipper. Steve buries his face in Peter’s neck as Peter’s deft hand slips down into his boxer-briefs and finds the hot, heavy weight of his cock. 

One stroke and Steve’s mouth is on his again with renewed intensity.

“Would you, though?” Peter asks again. He may be slightly high from the lack of oxygen, his head spinning as Steve kisses him like his vast reserves of control have disappeared completely. “Fuck me? I want this inside me.” 

“Jesus Christ, your mouth, Pete.” Steve smiles disbelievingly even as they kiss. “Don’t know why I’m surprised.” 

“I can do other things with my mouth.” Peter promises. He pushes on Steve’s shoulders slightly with one hand, creating enough room between their bodies to pull Steve’s cock out through his fly. He’s thick and long and perfect and dripping and Peter can practically feel Steve’s heartbeat throbbing through that raised vein on the underside, ridged against his fingers as he strokes. “I wanna suck you right now.”

“God help me I want you to,” Steve whispers. Peter doesn’t know if it’s the admission or the feel of Steve’s cock sliding against his palm, or the way his entire world has narrowed down to the periphery of Steve’s body, but he absolutely loses it. 

Crying out, his cock pulses inside his jeans, hot and sticky all over his skin and underwear. Four thrusts and it’s over, just like that. He shivers in the aftermath, trying to keep up his ministrations but his whole body shakes, collapses in on itself. 

“Did you just…” Steve starts to ask, stilling, and Peter lets out a sharp, pained laugh, nodding his head. 

“I can’t believe I just came in my pants with Captain America.” He says the first thing that comes to mind, and it’s not the slightest bit funny. He slumps his head to Steve’s shoulder in shame. Just like that, he’s back to being awkward and self-conscious. 

That glory was sure short-lived. 

“Peter…”

“Look, I promise I can do better.” He lifts his head to look at Steve earnestly. “You know that thing, that thing that everyone says, like when you’re a teenager you’re all hormones and stuff and all you can _think_ about is sex and all you want is sex? Well I never had that, I mean, not _never_ , me and MJ, but, whatever, it wasn’t quite…I mean I _never_ freaking jumped her like I just jumped you. But I was like, busy, as a teenager! Avengering and saving the world and then not saving the world and dealing with the Snap or whatever and, then saving the world some more and you know, like I think I just got all of that, the hormones and the stuff. Right now, late, in the past ten minutes. Fifteen minutes? God, I hope it was at least fifteen. I mean, I have literally never wanted someone as much as I want you and all of a sudden I’m saying these things like I’m Mr. Sex and I’m some expert at this stuff and I mean—I’ve had experience don’t get me wrong—but I don’t know where all that came from. I just…oh fuck, I just want you.” 

Steve is still holding him up and Peter thuds his head back against the wall with a defeated sigh, and then gestures down between their bodies with an overdramatic sweep of his hand. 

“Clearly.”

“Pete…” With his thumb and forefinger Steve takes him by the chin and tilts his head back down so they can look each other in the eye. 

Steve holds his gaze intently as he takes Peter’s hand and moves it back to his cock. Steve’s palm over his, Steve guides him in stroke after stroke, slowly at first and then faster, his hips thrusting into their combined grip. They lean their foreheads together and watch as Steve comes, gasping helplessly against Peter’s lips. 

“Okay, so I might be ready to go again.” Pete says with a breathless laugh, looking down at Steve’s come dripping from their hands. He strokes Steve slowly, pleased to feel Steve tremble at the touch. 

“Mr. Sex?” Steve murmurs, tone teasing. Peter laughs again, hoping that the flush of his orgasm hides the embarrassed blush. 

“Don Juan?” Peter supplements and Steve smiles. “It’s not like I know who is exactly world-renowned for smooth dirty talk! Do you have anyone at the tip of your tongue?” 

“Not much for dirty talk myself, never was much good at it,” Steve says, and leans in to kiss him. He quickly shows Peter what his tongue _is_ good at: licking in and taking the kiss filthy _really_ fast. 

“Still want you to fuck me,” Peter mumbles against his lips. 

“We should probably talk,” Steve gets serious, and Peter wants to rub away that line of tension between his eyebrows. “Half an hour ago this was just a movie night, and now I’m about to take you to bed.” 

If they talk first, Peter knows that good, solid, upstanding, righteous Steve might talk himself right out of that bedding part. Peter knows all the arguments, has made them with himself over and over again as he attempted to stamp out this attraction. 

“I’m 22, Steve,” Peter reminds him. “I stopped being a kid five years ago.” When they lost everyone, there was no going back. Everything was too real, too final, too horrible for that. 

What he wants to say but knows better than to mention is that Steve and Tony had fifteen years between them and that never stopped Steve from warming Tony’s bed, back before Sokovia and Bucky had torn them apart. But bringing up Tony now is a stupid idea that even he can recognize in advance. 

“I’ve been wanting this for over a year. You should admire the restraint, really.” 

That makes Steve’s frown ease, corner of his mouth twitching into a small, half-smile. 

“This was restraint?” He lets Peter down to the ground carefully, straightening his own pants and then taking off his own shirt, using it as a towel to clean his come from Peter’s fingers and his own. Then he turns and walks down the hallway toward his bedroom. 

He turns back at the doorway, pausing. He makes a pretty picture: bare-chested, hair mussed, jeans open and slung low over his hips, shirt still crumpled in his fist. Peter’s cock aches. 

Steve pushes open the door, and then waits.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are love.


End file.
